I am back in Sanctuary, hoping to wash some of the psychic stink of Santa Fe out of my mind.
The odds of success are not really good. There is something about that place that kind of sinks into your skin like the stench of rotting flesh. It just does not seem to come off after repeated scrubbings and a pass through the car wash. I can cover it up with perfume and scented soap, but that does not make it go away.
I am sure that the people that actually live there kinda like it, but there is no accounting for taste. I find a certain poetic justice in learning that the building we are building is on a graveyard of some kind. The native people in the area are not permitting any more digging, making landscaping an interesting proposal.
Santa Fe does seem to be more about the dead than youth. It is a place that is more interested in history than what its young people are doing at night. It is a city of artists, but their art is static and meant to be looked at while it just sits or hangs there. It always seemed to me that the best art is trying to raise responsible children. That art is always challenging the observer and changing every day.
Then they become ungrateful bastards and the real fun begins.
